Book of Sheba Sorrel
by Writheheart
Summary: She forgets as time goes on, her life in Zanarkand. She forgets who she is, she forgets her family and her friends. So, she will write her life down, before she forgets. Before she fogets herself.


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Authoress's Note: I have one thing to say about A Twins Tale, damn that was bad! My god, that story was _so_ horrible! I nearly wet myself at the entirety of the crappiness of it all. I couldn't even force myself to read all of it. Well, anyways, here is the pimped up version I promised you. There are some changes in this story, so let's get serious! Rain is a horrible name, and it reeks of no original creativity. So from now on Rain is Sheba, the name "Sheba" is an important part of the story as you will learn. A Twins Tale really didn't hold a good plot and it was rather childish, so this story is much more serious, and, perhaps, a bit more adult-like. Deal with it. This is also written in first person / first tense so this is a real challenge for me, anyways. "Sorrel" doesn't hold too much importance, I just like the name. This no longer holds the dreaded, hated Mary Sue, so this will be enjoyable. Other than that, things will just play out. Also, this is like a diary / autobiography, so the entries will be in _italics_. Normal time will be in normal print. I hope you enjoy A Twins Tale Version 2.0

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_Prelude: Beginnings_

"**_Why couldn't we see to stop the dreaming? Why did we stay on Spira? We had forgotten for so long. We had forgotten to move forward. We had forgotten to change." – Sandy: Leader of the Magus Sisters Sandy, Cindy & Mindy, Final Fantasy X_**

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I recall very little of my past these days, even though I am not a day over twenty-four. My sickness started shortly after I cam to the "real" world, and left the so-called "dream" world behind, unregretful. I know that I traveled with my famous Bitzball father, a soon-to-be well-known Lord Summoner, a stoic, loyal Samurai warrior and a few other odd editions. I recall their names, but I do not feel compelled to speak of them, they all hold eminent names, whilst I am referred in small footnotes in history as a troublesome as a youth and a harlot in my teenage and adult years. Slanderous lies, the lot of them. They don't even know my past. But I do, though my _sickness_ snags and steals my memories, like a cat burglar in a jewelry shop.

I was the odd girl out back in the World-that-Never-Was, the continent and republic city-state known as the Great Machina City of Zanarkand. I was the kind of girl the family wants to shove into the darkest corners of the room, or be hidden behind locked doors. They thought I was going to be one of those girls who ended up in the asylum for killing a man, thinking that he was a homo sapien shaped fiend. They were wrong, because, you see, my family never understood me. And the only person that did was my drunkard of a father, bitterly ironic, isn't it? My mother, my brother, and the neighbors never understood me like my father. He hated my brother and loved me, I thought it was fair.

My mother wasn't the best mother in the world, as she was impregnated at the ripe age of sixteen-and-three-quarters. She didn't have any idea of parenthood, as her parents abandoned her on the nearest doorstep they walked by. While she loved my adorable twin brother, she abhorred me at the tenth degree. Abhorrence to the tenth degree was abuse, and that Moira, my beloved mother did. My brother, who was very much different from my mother, was much, much more openly spiteful and vindictive. Hate was such a destabilized thing, as many people thought that it meant great dislike. I felt the full slap of abhorrence, as my sibling both scorned and despised me. His friends felt detestation for me, too. The only person I ever loved in my family was my father. And it wasn't just because of my wild, untamable actions. It was something else.

But I know I am strange to some people. It wasn't because of my erratic and epitome attitude, I simply looked different. But maybe it was because of my attitude. I am a catty person, which means I'm a homo-sapien that tends to hit people's sore spots and weaknesses. We are the ones to relentlessly taunt and tease people into a rage. And some would describe me as a sadist. Many say I fit the profile of one. I laugh relentlessly at that. I have those kinds of eyes that pierce into your heart, your soul, almost like I know all your secrets. They are those kinds of eyes that make you stop in your tracks and just want to look into them, and it wasn't just because I was blind. You see, my eyes were the queerest color of red. They weren't like the color red or the blood-red type, they were between claret and ruby. Devil's eyes as most people called them, demon's eyes. I laugh at all those names.

My hair was different, too, a pretty different, not ugly different. It wasn't gold blondish-beige color my brother hand. And it didn't mach my skin color either, like my brother's did. It was between a dark, golden blonde and a dark bronze-copper blonde. It wasn't all shiny brown and it wasn't all sparkly blonde, it was just in-between with a few whitish-platinum-blonde strands. It is a really sweet, appealing color, actually, or at least according to my father. It was rather long, too, very long, in fact. It is nearing my mid-thigh, the last time I checked. It is silky-smooth and soft and is always kept in an extremely unyielding cornrow plait that pulls the skin of my forehead tightly. Not a single strand is ever out of place, it is always kept in the same tress everyday, except when I sleep, whenever I don't suffer insomnia.

I have a wiry, lean build. It is the same form I had since I was a youngling. I am all muscle and not an inch of fat anywhere on my body, unless you would want to count my breasts, as they are nothing but fat. But that is all the fat you would _ever_ find on me, ever. I don't have those large, vein-like, bulgy muscles like body builder woman have that make them look large and scary. My muscles are small and compact, small, hill-like bulges, barely visible. But they are just visible enough to let bystanders, military personnel and civilians that I can pack a powerful punch to the head and a dominant kick to the groin. I am tall, as I am a downright damn proud, full five feet, nine inches. My face is sharp with high cheekbones, a sharp jaw line and almond, cat shaped eyes. My eyebrows are raised archly on my forehead and my nose is perfectly curved. My lips are full. Some would call me pretty, but I prefer _highly aristocratic_.

I have always lived in darkness, and I still do to this day. My eyes see no color; they cannot even feel or see the sweetness of light, all they see is darkness, blackness, and ebony. It only sees the darkness, it only feels the dusk and it only touches the coolness of black lights and its softness of its black, obsidian, silky-smooth wings. But even though I am blind and a friend to the darkness, I see the world through Seraphim's eyes. Why? you ask me. The answer within, I am a telepathic, you see, and a powerful clairvoyant. With my power I can see like a normal person, the skill is dead usefully. And as a telepathic I am also a bit of a telekinetic, which simply means I can manipulate items to make them into dangerous weapons, flying debris to be precise. And only my family knew I was disabled, not that they boasted about it. It was the dreaded, horrible family secret.

I lived my first five years in the World-that-Never-Was. My memories of Zanarkand are extremely vague, only coming to me in dreams, most of which I quickly forget. My sixth year was spent traveling around with the summoner, my father, the samurai and two others. After Sin was defeated _he _dropped me off at an orphanage on the outskirts of Inner-City Luca. I ran away a day later. Ten years later I found myself in the Al Bhed military as one of its number one military assassin / sniper, along with having the leadership of the Item and Artifact Recovery Unit. I was later forcefully added to another pilgrimage that included my spiteful, useless, pathetic older brother and a fifteen-year-old youngling, an offspring of the Lord Summoner I had first traveled with. It was the worst six months of my life, though I had the youngling summoner and Al Bhed princess to keep me company. But that wasn't enough. Six months later, though, I found myself in the company of an old ally who owned the High Wind. After the defeat of Sin, eternally, I left the group and traveled by myself for a year, by the direct orders of the Al Bhed military. I returned to the military headquarters and fought in the upcoming war for six damn years.

During those trying, taxing, hard years my old adversary fought beside me, all six years. We saved each other countless times, though we abhorred each other very, very much. I hated him at first because he left me behind whilst he traveled around the world with a heavy coin purse on his hip and famousness carried on his back. I didn't know why he decided to fight in the war; he was a Bevellian through and through. It was another reason why I hated him so much then. The Bevellian Government had stared the war, as they were worried Al Bhed would become the leading dictate political power. But he saved my countless times, protected me and surrendered himself to save me. It was when I laid in the military infirmary room – I had been shot in the stomach after he surrendered – I realized I _loved_ the stupid bastard. It came as a sharp slap in the face.

And it is him who lies in my – our – bed. I do not call him _husband_, nor can I call him my lover. He is neither of them, he is something else. Nor can I call him my boyfriend, because he is not. He is in-between lover and husband, the latter being neither. We have not married for one, simple complicated reason. We are willing to break apart and move away if both want different, important things, the very choice that could change our paths. But only if one would have to give up their own important dream to make another happy. Perhaps many thousands of people think that it is a cruel, meaningless relationship, but we really do love each other. And we know the risk of being in love with another military personal. We know that in wars we cannot risk other men's life on the battlefield if one of us killed or hurt or even captured.

Our room is scantly clad and extremely small. It only holds a single bed, a desk, two chairs – which are stationed at our desk, a small closet and a simple dresser. This is the room of a military personal, emotionless and painfully simple. Everything about the Al Bhed military was simple, free of adornments, and sugar coatings. The Al Bhed didn't believe in paper work, documents, and alliances with other armies. And that very reason is why the Al Bhed has the best military force in Spira. But, if anything, we are nothing but extremely organized cavalcade of marauders. We didn't have fancy gun tricks, or specialized walks, we just _hit_ our enemy, hard, and fast, and accurate. We barely had any casualties, simply because we knew Sanubia like the back of our hand and knew all the hidey-holes and places that were best for fighting. No casualties, until the Conflict. The casualties grew larger and larger. The war was simply a massacre. The bodies quickly piled up in large piles, Home and her citizens were threatened. And Home was still recovering from the Guado invasion.

The war ended six months ago and the Al Bhed are slowly starting to recover. It is really amazing how much Home has stood up to, and won. For one entire month the entire Al Bhed population were wanderers, traversing through the desert, only wearing the clothes on our back, the items in our hands and the water canteens on our hips. During that month we asked ourselves again and again _why did we deserve this?_, and we didn't deserve it. But we eventually found the ruins of Home and began to clean up the mess Bevelle left behind. But Home is so much bigger now, nearly twice the size of the Imperial City of Bevelle, and with a much better defense system along with airships, and weapons attached to Home's ten pillars. But even with the weapons and protection we are still in danger of airborne attacks and desert sandstorms. Another, more serious danger, was the Bevellian army as the often tried to send spies into our midst. We live in a dangerous world, here in Sanubia, be none of us would change it for anything.

Winter is coming, crouching very much like a fiend; waiting to launch forward and cause frightening hurricanes and sandstorms. This is the season of winter where we all hide in Home until the season is over. But the one good thing about the season of winter is the time spent catching up with old friends and family. As in summer, spring and fall the Al Bhed are busy oiling the machinas, making sure a multitude of thing are working and selling food, books, clothes and other miscellaneous items to others. And the ones in the military are always busy at meetings, practicing and other tasks. Usually during the winter he and I spend our time talking with our friends and small intimate family or reading the books we have bought over the other three, busier seasons.

He and I have already bought a multitude of large, thick, heavy books with the smallest print. They are enough to sedate both our starvation for knowledge, as be both crave to read book from foreign locations, some from the Omega Ruins and others from the remains of the sunken city southwest of Besaid Isle. Blank unlined notebooks, sheaves of papers and black hard covered blank books are stacked on our dark cherry wood desk; along with inkwells, Zu and Alcyone quills, ink pens, lead wooden pencils, crayons and colored pencils. The blue-domed Comm. Sphere lays dormant, like a paper weight, on folded pieces of parchment paper that holds bills, letters, checks, money orders, and paper work. A single globule-shaped purplish-blue lamp lights the desk in an array of foreign pastel colors, as Preflies lights the lamp.

He and I aren't exactly poor, but we are not rich like my brother and his Lady Summoner wife. We don't live in deep luxury or in pleasure like my brother and his brunette haired summoner wife. We have enough money to pay heating bills, electricity bills, water bill, apartment rent, and shopping expenses. We have our own little bank account with a healthy amount of Gil, as we put a third of each of our checks into the account, and it is only to be touched if we are in lack of cash on hand, which we usually never are, as a small cherry jewelry box holds a hale and hearty quantity of Gil. We both work in the military; so that brings in a nice sum of money, most of which is spend on food and necessities and bills. And we are both very happy and very pleased with our lives. We are mostly pleased because we have only intimate family and friends around us. We don't need anything else.

The flame flickers as I shuffle in my chair. Our checkbook lies in front of me, the numbers mocking me. We are a bit over due in our bills, as we had splurged to buy new Master Tonberry and Tonberry lamps, mostly we were sick of eating and reading in the dark. My filigree hair trails over my nude shoulders. I am clad in nothing, save for a light, silk crimson robe. He, too, wears nothing. Even though winter is all but upon us, it is still sweltering hot outside, and it leaks in between the crevasses of our doors and windows. He trundles and moans in his sleep, a nightmare about the war. He is now facing me and his face is calm and smooth and unmarred by frowns or scowls. Around his waist, covering his nether regions is our Coeurl blanket.

The fur is thick and full, colored ivory white with slapdash ebony streaks all about. The multicolored feather antennas are sewed around the edges, as the pelts are sewed back to back, so the feathers were meshed in between the pelts. The feathers were mounted on string with three bone beads that are colored sky blue, sunshine yellow and peacock green. Coeurls are hard to find in Sanubia and too expensive to import or pre-order and with the fact they were to kill, so he and I spent nearly two months killing nearly forty Coeurls to make a single blanket. Ours is a one-of-a-kind artifact. The Coeurl blanket is amazing as well, many people would think that the Coeurl would be hot, and it is, sometimes. In the summer the Coeurl takes the coldness from the air and vents it on to the persons beneath the blanket, though it gives that bit of warmth everyone loves in the summer. And in the winter is sucks the warmth from a person's skin to bring wonderful warmth to make the bed cozy and warm.

The pillows are made of Master Coeurl cream colored chest hair, though we didn't use the orange-reddish-yellowish fur with the black dots; mostly because it didn't match the Coeurl fur. At the corners of the pillows are the Master Coeurl's reddish-maroon black-tipped feathers, they similarly designed like the Coeurl blanket, as the feathers are suspended by a single piece of twine with bone beads colored fire red, dark maroon, and pitch black. The pillows are stuffed with Sanubia and Calm Lands Chocobo feathers. We found the Master Coeurls along with the Coeurls, so we didn't have to spend time to search for the exclusive Master Coeurl. The pillows are unbelievably plush and soft, and it feels as if I am sleeping on a cloud. The pillows are very much the same as the Coeurl blanket, though it is much more potent and smells of fresh desert roses and hibiscuses. And our mattress is made of the hide of the Sand Worm, which is as fine as silk, as strong as diamonds and as soft as velvet. It, too, is stuffed with Chocobo feathers.

The Coeurl comforter falls back on his hips as he sits up and rests the pads of his fingers on various places on his face. His other hand supports his arm on the mattress as he murmurs something shortly under his breath. The numbers I have added on a sheet of paper turn into nothing but blurs as I turn to look at him, worriedly. He is still groggy as he rubs his eyes with his pointer fingers in a crescent-shaped sweep. He shoots me a tired, muzzy glance as I stuff the paper in a drawer that is parallel to my stomach. I smile lovingly at him as I twirl my personalized black ink pen through my fingers delicately. He begins to move his legs, as if he was going to dangle them over the mattress. I shake my head and hold up my hand to halt him. He discharges a confused, bamboozled at me, which I respond with a giggle.

_Go back to bed, _I instruct softly, _I have something to do. I'll join shortly, don't worry. _He hurls one, last look of worry before sinking back into the malleable mattress and pulling the coverlet up over his shoulders. He does not turn his back to me, as he still is facing me. He shifts his head and his dark colored hair filters down through the pillows and pools on the Sand Worm mattress. He closes his eyes and his lashes slope against his bronzed cheeks. He cracks one eye open, a silver of his dark colored iris peaking through the small aperture. He winks at me when I catch him peering at me. I stick my tongue out him, childishly, and turns my back to him. From a pile of blank, hard covered books, I pull leather, blood red one from the stack. My hair tumbles over my silk swathed shoulder as I rest my head in the crook of my left elbow. The spilled coffee, crème colored pages that are leaf thin stare at me blankly, as I stare just as blankly at them. I do not know how to start this directly. The pen in my hand falls to the desk as I tap the metal head on the wood.

_Start at the beginning, love. That's where it all began._ He suggests sleepily from the bed. I grin at him and tap my fingers on the wood in a calm, slow, steady rate. Yes, from the World-that-Never-Was, that was the ideal, most logical place to start. But I cannot remember any memories of Zanarkand. I cross my eyes at the book and drop my head onto the desk with a believable _crash_. I rack my brain, then I remember something my old school professor said. I take my pen in one hand and a blank piece of lineless paper in the other. I place the felt nub of the pen over the paper and look at a portrait of him and me standing in front of a nearby oasis. Our two Chocobos, respectively named Zoë and Tseng, are in the background, pecking at the Sand Worms for a meal. My hand moves on its own as I admire the delicate pastel work above the desk.

_Zanarkand…Tidus…Moira…Jecht…school…boat house…ocean…Sin…angel's wings…lace…dress…lacework…_are some of the words that are written on the tea stained colored page. My eyes dart over the page, the memories are falling into place. _The sky is falling! _as Chicken Little would say, _the sky is falling_. _The sky is falling_. I remember as I hurriedly read the paper over and over again. _The sky is falling_. I let my fingers caress the paper over and over and over again, as if trying to imprint the words onto my fingers. I place the paper above the leather book. The pen in my hand is slick from my sweating, cold hands. I lick my lips once and smooth the leaf thin paper with my pointer and middle fingers. In the topmost, left corner I hesitate before writing the first words in the chronicles of my life. The _Book of Sheba Sorrel_. My lips curl in a sardonic smile as I look at the paper. I smooth my face and I being to write.

And thus begins the _Book of Sheba Sorrel…_

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**Authoress's Note: The completion of the first chapter. I know that this is _extremely_ short, but it _is_ an introduction chapter, so I think you can find it in your hear to forgive me. I didn't give you, the readers, to much information to strive off of, huh? Ha, ha, ha, good, very good, all part of my master plan. Many of you will probably ask: _is Tidus going to be the antagonist, in a way?_ Yes, in this story Tidus will be a bastard, because sometimes he acts like one. I really didn't define who _he _was, mostly because I haven't the foggiest idea who Sheba will be paired up with. It may or may not be a boyo from A Twins Tale. If you have any ideas for an OC, I would be willing and pleased to use it, if you would let me. Any ideas and / or improvements, please send it in a review or PM or even an e-mail. I am always open for improvement. Any grammatical errors / too Mary Sueish, please point that out for me, and I would be most obliged. I am open to **_constructive criticism_**, not **_flaming_**. All flamers will be sent to the special hell, reserved for child molesters and people who talk during the theater. Don't like, don't read, don't **_bitch_**. You want a disclaimer? Look in my profile, I am too lazy to write one in every chapter. If you are too lazy to go to my profile, don't say _you don't have a disclaimer_ in your review. This is _not_ beta-ed, because I don't have a beta. (Authoress gets off her soap box.) Anyways, if you want to be my beta, send me a PM and / e-mail, or in even in a review. Thanks for reading!

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**_Writheheart, Alexandria, and the Plot-Bunnies-that-Live_**


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